


Guild

by someinstant



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:31:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someinstant/pseuds/someinstant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not art. Not even close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guild

"Did it roll under the chair?" Gwen asks, still cupping a handful of loose beads in one hand. "I don't see it over here."

Merlin shakes his head, and starts to crawl out from under the workbench. "Oh, hang on, wait," he says, and slides two intrepid fingers under the hem of Gwen's skirt. "Ha! Got it," he says triumphantly, before she can swat at him. "Very pretty," Merlin says, rolling the tiny white bead between his finger tips. It's shiny and smooth, like the inside of a sea shell.

"It ought to be," Gwen says. "It's probably worth more than I am. Now hand it over," and she plucks the small pearl from his fingers, carefully dropping it back into the slippery pile folded up in her apron.

"A falsehood if I've ever heard one," Merlin says, settling back down on the bench and picking up his work. "You're worth at least a dozen of those silly beads, and you know it."

Gwen laughs. "Two dozen, I should hope." She runs a lump of beeswax up and down a length of thread, and then pokes the stiffened end through the eye of a beading needle. It's one smooth, seamless motion, and Merlin watches in admiration as always. He has long since decided that Gwen's eyesight must be vastly superior to his own.

"Two dozen," he agrees, and they lapse into comfortable silence: Gwen painstakingly placing one pearl bead after another onto Morgana's second-best pair of gloves, and Merlin doing his level best to repair a split seam in Arthur's leather training gauntlets. He has, sadly, learned during his tenure as Arthur's manservant that seams repaired with magic are lumpy, prone to splitting, and appallingly uneven.

(At least, according to the prince. From what Merlin can tell, the seams he repairs without the aid of magic are _also_ lumpy, prone to splitting, and appallingly uneven. But it doesn't really seem wise to bring up this comparison before Arthur.)

Merlin works steadily, pushing the heavy needle through the leather and resigning himself to red-pricked fingers for the rest of the week. He's not making too much of a mess of this pair, he thinks-- it is entirely possible that he's improving. A little.

Gwen sighs, and puts down her glove. She shakes out her hands and flexes her fingers.

"It's a pain, isn't it," Merlin sympathizes. "And you've got it worse than me, I think. All those little fiddly details."

Gwen shakes her head. "I don't mind," she says. "Really," she insists, when Merlin snorts. "It's-- they're going to be beautiful when they're done. When I'm done with them," she says wistfully, tracing a finger over the intricate swirls of pale blue embroidery and white beads on the back of the glove. "They're going to look lovely on her hands."

And they will, Merlin knows. Morgana has beautiful hands, like birds in flight. Gwen's gloves on Morgana's hands will be a work of art.

Merlin glances down at his own repair job, and then smirks as he holds it up for Gwen's inspection. "Arthur's gloves, however," he intones, "will be lucky if they have the right number of fingers." He grins. "Do you think he would mind much if I cut off the thumbs before I returned them? The prince could start a new fashion: thumb-less gauntlets."

Gwen rolls her eyes as she puts her sewing kit away. It's a few hours until supper, but Morgana takes ages to dress. "You know you'd never do such a thing, Merlin," she says as she walks out the door. "You wouldn't risk his hands like that."

Merlin wants to scoff at that, to mutter, _Just watch me_, but she's right. Gwen's right, and it's extremely annoying to have to admit it. Arthur's infuriating and a horse's arse and a constant thorn in Merlin's side, but he's also a little bit wonderful, and it does funny things to something in Merlin's ribcage to see him injured. So no, Merlin would never send Arthur into battle-- or even the training grounds-- with shoddy gear.

So Merlin sighs and picks up the needle again, reinforcing a seam that will help to grip a sword, to protect fingers from cold and steel. It's almost straight, this time, and when he turns the glove right side out again, there's only the tiniest lump visible.

It's not art. Not even close. No one will look at the scarred leather covering Arthur's hands and say, "How beautiful. What exquisite workmanship." But Merlin can't help but think they'll look just fine on Arthur's hands anyway.


End file.
